


green silk, red stiletto, white bone

by surgicalstainless



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, F/F, Halloween, ghost story, the Big Bone Lick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 03:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2531735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surgicalstainless/pseuds/surgicalstainless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a flutter of green silk at the corner of Pepper's vision.</p><p> </p><p>Just in time for Hallowe'en, an atmospheric <em>divertissement</em> of a ghost story for Marvel's good little girls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	green silk, red stiletto, white bone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_wordbutler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/gifts).



> Because [this is all her fault.](http://the-wordbutler.tumblr.com/post/99287049922/wait-big-bone-lick-is-really-a-thing-i-thought-it)

There's a flutter of green silk at the corner of her vision.

Pepper chases it, follows the whispering emerald lure around a corner, through a door. It's a red door, "NO ADMITTANCE" painted on it in stark gold letters. Pepper puts her hands against the wood, pushes in.

This is the backstage area, behind the red door, behind the curtains currently hiding the little low-lit stage. It's filled with girls in fishnets and corsets, ringlets and top hats. They are flitting back and forth like shiny black and white butterflies, checking makeup, straightening seams. Two girls are huddled together — Jemma and Skye, Pepper recalls — one with her arms around the other, who is crying slow blood-pink tears. Across the wings from them a third girl stands, glaring balefully, her tail twitching. As Pepper cranes for a glimpse of emerald amongst the chaos, Jemma catches her eye. She starts toward Pepper, weeping friend in tow. Beneath her hat, carefully ringletted little snakes are hissing in indignation.

"Oh, Madam Pepper, can you —" 

The rest of her sentence is drowned as the house band chooses that moment to burst into life, with a drumroll and a fanfare that signals the show is about to go on. The girls all whirl into unified motion, skittering onstage in their glittering chorus line. By the time the curtain goes up they are perfect, claws sheathed and fangs shining in bright lacquered smiles. They begin their choreography, and no crowd has ever known razzle-dazzle quite like this.

Watching from the wings, Pepper is for the moment alone. It's a gloomy little oasis of calm, just outside that restless sea of limelight, sequins and squealing cornets. She gives herself a moment to enjoy it — just one — and then turns back to her pursuit. That flutter of green silk is nowhere to be seen, though. Not even in the darkest corners, not a hint, not a scrap. Pepper cuts through the dressing rooms (deserted but destroyed, as if a flock of harpies had descended on a Sephora sale), and emerges through another red door.

The noise, the lights, the smells close over her head and threaten to drown her, just as they always do. Pepper stands still in the doorway to look around. From here, the club sparkles like a jewelbox: crystal chandeliers and cut-glass tumblers with rich amber liquid inside, the glitz of the girls onstage, horns shining on the bandstand, the gleaming expanse of the bar. Layers of smoke curl over everything, sweet and intoxicating. As Pepper stalks over thick carpet to the bar, she feels as if she's wading through a lagoon of perfume, cigar smoke, pulsing bass and blue notes. Nowhere in her sight, though, is that slippery green silk.

There — a flash of emerald! 

But it's only Emily at the bar, mixing something brilliantly verdant. She favors Pepper with a smile and pushes the glass her way, its contents grass green and, for a brief moment, afire. The two women watch the flames flare, flicker and die...

Pepper shakes from the reverie first. "You think I need a little Green Fairy, Emily? Something to make me see things that couldn't possibly be there?"

Emily's smile is very broad. Her makeup is good, but there's a grey pallor to the dark brown of her skin, and nothing can completely mask that faint hint of formaldehyde under expensive perfume. Her evening gown is strongly boned, for support, and her opera gloves are rubber-lined, for hygiene. 

"I think you need no help there, Madam. Sometimes I just want to watch a thing burn."

"Do be careful, Emily. Good bartenders are _so_ hard to find." Pepper slides the smoking drink over to a tall blonde at the end of the bar. The woman downs it in one swallow and saunters their way. She's elegant in navy pants and waistcoat, a scarlet sash set over her hips and some kind of medallion glinting gold on her breast.

She hands Emily the empty glass and nods to Pepper. "Madam."

"Carol. How is everything tonight?"

"Not bad, not bad. Jennifer's on the door," nodding to where a large green form can be seen lounging in the entryway, "and Maria's making the rounds." The stern dark-haired woman stalks around the tables for orders, a silver tray in her gloved hands and an air of barely restrained violence about her. "Not surprisingly," she grins, "all the regulars are behaving themselves."

All three women lean against the bar and gaze out into the crowd. Pepper can indeed make out some familiar faces through the haze. There's the charismatic playboy and his date, who looks like nothing so much as a mad scientist. There's the mysterious black man with his eyepatch and heavy leather coat, and beside him the unassuming attaché with alien eyes who is every bit as dead as Emily. And yes, tucked in a far corner, the strange fellow with silver at his temples and the scarlet cloak on his shoulders. He owns a club across town, and eternally covets Pepper's talent. He can feel her eyes on him, Pepper's certain, because he quirks an enigmatic smile and lifts his glass her way.

On stage, the chorus girls have yielded the floor to a ferociously complicated tango. One dancer twists and stretches in fantastical ways, and his partner simply isn't always visible — here a curving ankle, there a trailing hand, now a Cheshire smile. They end with a flourish, to enraptured applause. The band shifts to something slower, softer, saxophones swelling. Now in the spotlight, a single gossamer strand of silk. It is joined by another, and then a third, until there is a whole web there beneath the curtains, shimmering in the light. Three women swarm over the strands, lithe in bodysuits of red, black and white. The audience is silent, utterly caught.

Pepper takes the opportunity to scan the club more closely, looking for that tantalizing green fabric. No, nothing anywhere, unless — is that a flicker of emerald in the shadows behind the grand piano? The lounge singer is just taking his seat on the bench, and he nods and smiles to someone, his dirty blond hair shining gold in the low light. Pepper can't see who he speaks to, though, and just as she moves to investigate the silks act comes to a close. The crowd slowly stirs to thunderous applause, as if sleepers woken from a spell, and just like that the flash of viridescence is gone.

The singer's voice is excellent, but he has a hard act to follow, and the audience breaks into chatter as he plays. The band takes the break to refresh their drinks, and Pepper slides away when she sees the small herd of musicians moving toward her. Emily will be busy, and Carol is already at work scanning the crowd. Pepper weaves through the tables, ever the gracious hostess, giving a smile here, dropping a few warm words there. She is resplendent in a slim white tuxedo, her strawberry hair set in flawless finger waves; in the shadows of the club, she glows. The playboy reaches out to pat her bottom as she passes, but Pepper is somehow not where she seems. It's an old game they play. He seems to like hearing someone tell him "no."

She does not hurry, crossing the club. This is her moment; she will arrive at the stage at precisely the right time. The singer's eyes are half-closed, as he croons a downtempo version of a song from _Pinocchio_ , of all things, but he is watching Pepper like a hawk. When she shakes the last hand and sets her red stiletto on the stair for the climb to the stage, there is silence in the space. This, _this_ is what brought everyone here tonight. The spotlight takes her into its heated embrace, and her smile is like diamonds when she turns to face her guests.

"Ladies. Gentlemen. Others. Welcome."

A round of fervent applause. 

"Many are the marvels that grace our stage, but tonight we are fortunate indeed. Tonight you will see a spectacle two million years in the making; tonight you will witness a wonder never before seen on this earth — or under it." She smiles, and the crowd ripples with eager laughter. "It is my pleasure to present to you... The work of the Widow, the Mistress of Death, for whom the dead can dance. I give you the _**Big Bone Lick**_!"

At once the entire club is plunged into darkness. The applause, which had been growing, sputters into confused murmurs in the black. Pepper steps blindly down the stairs, and there is the singer at her elbow, guiding her back down safe. Once more in their places, the band kicks into a dirty swing rhythm, all low brass and driving drums. As the they reach a crescendo, a single spotlight reignites, stabbing white-hot onto the stage. It is empty. There's nothing there.

The band quiets suddenly, vamping at pianissimo, and everyone in the club can now clearly hear it: clicking. There's a dry, hollow rattling sound, rhythmic like the tapping of feet.

Here comes the chorus line. Lightly they take the stage, nimble for their size, one after another until the space is full. From her position by the piano, Pepper feels the audience's collective indrawn breath. She was right. This _is_ a wonder.

It's a macabre parody of the chorus line from earlier in the evening, except instead of girls there are skeletons, dancing sets of bones of creatures long, long dead. There's a mastodon, and a bison, giant antelopes and an ox. There's a camel, and a stag-moose, and a mammoth, with its curling tusks. Animate they shuffle to the rhythm of the music, and everyone can hear the dry bones click, click, click.

There are no strings. No tricks here, unless magic is a trick. The creatures dance as they would have moved in life, tails flicking, heavy heads swinging. They sway and spin and shuffle, white bone gleaming in the lights. When the skeletons form up for a high-kick line, the air around them seems to sparkle for a moment, shining motes swirling over bone. A seeming of the animals as they were in life appears — ghostly layers of skin and shaggy hair hover over the skeletal frames, the old band back together again for one last show. Then, as the final touch, the creatures gain white spats and shining top hats. The mammoth gets a cane in its curled-up trunk. They shake and shimmy over the boards as if reborn to it, and the applause is _tremendous_.

There's nothing that wouldn't seem like a let-down after that, of course. The club empties quite quickly, and Pepper is so caught up in congratulations and marvelments that she forgets to look, for a while, for a flutter of green silk at the edges of her vision. Soon, though, the last customer has left, and the lounge singer stands from his piano bench and bids her farewell. The music doesn't stop, but that's to be expected, here. Emily at the bar is polishing her last glass, and she'll be vanishing into the night now, too. Pepper walks slowly to the back of the empty club and settles on a velvet-padded bench. 

This is when the night shift starts.

They're a secret, the night shift, not for paying eyes. They start when the lights go dim, when chairs are upturned on tables and doors are double-locked. Slowly a glow rises on the tiny dance floor before the bandstand. Music filters in, fuzzed and changeable, like an old radio with a fussy dial. And if you squint just right, or watch sidelong, there are bodies on the dance floor.

A squad of men, in various Second World War-era uniforms. They gesture, step and twist in odd little loops and recursions, as if stuck, as if stuck. They only have eyes for each other. Their hands reach out, but never touch. They gesture, twist and step.

There's a couple on the dance floor: a blond American with captain's bars, and a sad brunet with sergeant's stripes. Though they dance with and around the other soldiers, it's clear they are a pair. The ghosts on the dance floor are caught in an eternal _pas de deux_ , and the soldiers are their corps. They only have eyes for each other. They gesture, step and twist.

Sometimes, if Pepper's lucky, the woman will appear, too. She's in uniform just like the others, but her dark hair is perfectly curled, and her lips are ruby red. She sways, off to the side, and her lips move. Pepper wonders if she's giving orders, or singing a song only her men can hear. The woman never gets her dance.

Pepper relaxes onto her bench, in the dark, with the night shift shuffling to snatches of songs half-heard. It's an odd sort of home, but a home nonetheless. There's a rustle of silk beside her, and cool lips press into her cheek. She closes her eyes in appreciation, and the lips press again.

"I've been looking for you," Pepper says, eyes still shut.

"I've been playing hard to find."

Pepper's lips curve up. "I noticed. The Big Bone Lick went wonderfully."

"The spats were my favorite part."

"Thank you. I spend so much time running this club, it's a welcome change to craft a nice, layered illusion like that. Muscles, skin, hair, and haberdashery — all to compliment your choreography — it's quite the challenge."

"We make a good team."

Pepper opens her eyes at that. Beside her on the bench sits a beautiful woman, a vision in a green silk dress and tumbling red curls. Her lips are quirked up in a small, private smile, and there are secrets hiding in their corners. Natasha Romanova, the Widow, for whom the dead can dance. 

Pepper returns the smile and keeps the secrets, stands and offers the Widow her hand. "Yes," she says. "We do."

They move together to the dance floor, and lean into each other a little, swaying along to music mostly imagined. The ghosts there part to make them room. The blond captain looks up from his sergeant, seems almost to see them before he again turns away. Pepper slides a hand across the cool silk of her partner's bodice, leans down to meet Natasha's cool lips with her own. 

It isn't normal life, not quite, but it's home.

**Author's Note:**

> So, the [Big Bone Lick](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Big_Bone_Lick_State_Park) is actually a state park in Kentucky. It's named after its fossil beds of Pleistocene megafauna. If they were reanimated, I'm sure the megafauna would make a _terrible_ kick line.
> 
> The soundtrack, if you were wondering, is all [Pink Martini](http://pinkmartini.com/about/).
> 
> The dancing in this was inspired by two ballets performed by [Oregon Ballet Theatre](http://www.obt.org/index.html): "Never Stop Falling (In Love)," choreographed by Niccolo Fonte, to music by Pink Martini; and "The Lost Dance," choreographed by Matjash Mrozewski, to music by Owen Belton. This fic first came to life in a plush red velvet chair in a darkened theatre, and that's where it stayed.
> 
> And, as always, you are sincerely encouraged to come visit me on [tumblr](http://z-delenda-est.tumblr.com). I have no idea what I'm doing, but more friends are always better. And I really like prompts.


End file.
